


I've sunshine enough to spread

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [104]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The first time is an accident. The second time is unrepentant thievery.





	I've sunshine enough to spread

The first time it’s because Obito's laundromat is closed and he hasn’t been able to do laundry in a week.

It’s not _stealing_. Hashirama left early for work, and Obito is staying over, glad to escape his rat-trap of an apartment in favor of an actual house with a garden and a stove that works without needing to be kicked a few times first. It’s his day off, and he intends to spend most of it in Hashirama’s garden— _their_ garden, now. The tomatoes need to be staked, a few chrysanthemums need to be transplanted, the peaches need to be picked, and everything needs more water. Obito enjoys it more than he probably should, more than he ever thought he would as a child looking at other people gardening, and right now spending the day in worn old clothes and dirty gloves, waiting for his boyfriend to get home, sounds like a perfect day off.

Of course, his phone rings just as he’s taking off his pyjamas, loud and insistent. Obito pauses with his hands on the hem of his tank top and groans, because that’s Kakashi’s ringtone and that means something is definitely wrong. Kakashi would text otherwise, and then Obito would be able to ignore it and go on with his day.

“ _What_?” he demands, even as he heads for the laundry basket by the bathroom door. His clothes are still in a bag, waiting to be washed, but he’s pretty sure he saw one of his mixed in with Hashirama’s clothes.

“Maa, I'm not the one you should be yelling at,” Kakashi protests, and he sounds completely frazzled. It makes Obito groan preemptively, even as he kicks his jeans out from under the bed and drags them out.

“What went wrong this time?” he asks, squinting at a patch of violet in the basket while he tugs his jeans up. His shirt or the one Hashirama owns that’s two shades lighter? He can't—

“The food service company called. There was an error processing our delivery,” Kakashi says. “They _might_ be able to get us the food by the end of the week, but probably not before Monday.”

“ _What_.” Obito freezes in horror, trying to work out the logistics. He feels a little faint just thinking about it, honestly. “But—we’re out of nearly everything!”

There's a sigh. “I'm aware, Obito. I've been on the phone with them, but they’ve hung up on me three times already.”

“I’ll be right in,” Obito promises. He can ask Hashirama to water when he gets home, since this has to take precedence; the café running out of food isn't the end of the world, but it means they’ll lose a hell of a lot of business, and they can't afford it right now.

“Hurry,” Kakashi says, dryly amused, and hangs up. Obito mutters a curse, buttons his jeans, and grabs the shirt, pulling it on and heading down the stairs at a run as he buttons it. It’s only when he’s halfway down the block that he realizes it’s a size too large, cuffs dangling at the tips of his fingers, and he groans, shoves the sleeves up as best he can. Turns, bolting for the bus as it pulls up, and—

It smells like Hashirama’s aftershave. Like _Hashirama_ , and it’s almost enough to make Obito miss a step. Warm, woodsy, a little green, and he breathes it in with a guilty sort of pleasure. It takes effort to keep moving, to board the bus when all he wants is to bury his face in the collar and inhale.

The shirt is too big, softer than Obito's. A little more thoroughly worn, and Obito slides into one of the seats with the tips of his ears burning. Catching the hem between his fingers, he strokes it carefully, enjoying the feeling against his skin. It’s tempting to burrow into the collar, pull it up over his nose and breathe in, but he manages to restrain himself. It’s hard, though, when he thinks of Hashirama wearing it, the cloth lying across Hashirama’s dark skin and warm from the hear of his body.

Oh god. Taking his shirt was a mistake, but Obito can't help but think it was a really, _really_ good one.

“Why are you red?” Kakashi says when Obito trips off the bus. Kakashi is, of course, waiting for him with his phone in hand, and he looks Obito over with a narrow gaze and then asks, “Did you _shrink_?”

“Shut up, Bakashi!” Obito snaps, sailing past him and trying not to focus on his burning cheeks. “Is Rin in yet?”

“Do you _want_ her to be? Because I want us to have a working relationship with the supplier—”

“You're the one who kept getting hung up on!”

 

The second time is—

Well. It’s more or less a deliberate theft. Obito knows exactly what he’s doing when he snags Hashirama’s sweatshirt off the back of the couch, and there's no real excuse; his laundry is done, his own sweater is hanging by the door, it’s not _that_ cold, but…

Obito sinks into the oversized sweater, tugging it up around his face, and Hashirama is a big man, taller and broader than Obito, and this sweatshirt is oversized even on him. It drowns Obito a little, covers his hands, makes him feel like he’s wrapped in a blanket that smells of Hashirama and is soft with washing. He buries his face in his covered hands, smiling, and drops onto the couch, curling up in the corner of the cushions. Hashirama is at work again, and it’s raining outside, soft but steady. He’s alone in the house, but—

A footstep, a breath. Obito freezes, eyes widening, and peeks over the edges of the sleeves to find Hashirama in front of the couch, eyes wide, still holding onto his messenger bag.

“I thought you had _work_!” Obito squeaks.

“Madara and I decided to cancel class,” Hashirama says, but there's a smile breaking across his face, a light in his expression. “I—is that my sweater?”

“Of course it’s not,” Obito lies, feeling himself flush dark crimson in a slow wave from hairline to collarbones.

Hashirama laughs, dropping his bag, and leans forward. Obito gets half a second of warning before he’s scooped up, right off the couch. He yelps, grabbing at Hashirama’s shoulders as he’s picked up and spun. Then Hashirama drops back, flopping into the cushions with Obito on top of him, and he reaches up, catching Obito's face between his hands as he beams.

“You look adorable,” he says cheerfully. “Is this why I couldn’t find my shirt the other day?”

“You couldn’t find your shirt because we dropped it in the garden,” Obito says tartly, but he can't help smiling back at Hashirama, leaning against his chest and propping his elbows on his shoulders. There's long, dark hair caught around his throat, and Obito brushes them away, letting the strands slide through his fingers like silk.

“Well, at least we had fun,” Hashirama says, and plucks at the collar of the sweatshirt with idle fingers. He smiles, slides a hand up Obito's arm to tangle their fingers together, and adds, “You really do look cute.”

“Shut up,” Obito mutters, but there's no heat behind it. he grips Hashirama’s hand, curls forward to drop his head on Hashirama’s shoulder, and breathes in. Green, woodsy, warm, and he closes his eyes and smiles a little to himself. “I'm glad you're home,” he says.

Hashirama chuckles, wrapping his free arm around Obito's back and pressing his cheek to his hair. “Me too,” he says. “Should I start leaving my clothes out for you? You can wear them whenever you want, you know.”

Obito makes a sound of offense, but the fact that he can't be bothered to lift his head from Hashirama’s skin to do so probably gives it less of an impact. “It’s not as much fun if I don’t steal them,” he mutters.

“Then you definitely can't have any of my clothes,” Hashirama says promptly, his tone perfectly solemn. When Obito rolls his eyes, Hashirama laughs into his hair.

“I like it,” he says softly. “I like you wanting to wear them. It makes me happy.”

He’s so _honest_. Obito groans and buries his face in Hashirama’s shoulder, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “They smell like you,” he says, muffled, and enjoys the way it makes Hashirama’s breath catch just a little.

“And when I steal them back they’ll smell like you instead,” Hashirama says, like he can't imagine anything better, and there’s no possible way Obito could _not_ kiss him after a statement like that.


End file.
